


Drill

by yeaka



Category: Andromeda (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cock & Ball Torture, Dominance, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, Mild Painplay, Mirror Universe, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Slurs, Spanking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3139490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan punishes Telemachus Rhade for not following orders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drill

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I consider Andromeda an honourary Star Trek, so I think it needs a Mirror Universe. Which is basically an alternate universe where everyone is evil and humans serve the Terran Empire. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Andromeda or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s chasing down Harper—who he _knows_ is hiding from him, like the little runt always does when his superiors get pissed—when Beka calls from the bridge: more crewmembers need discipline. 

And Dylan can guess who the current miscreant is, so he turns on the spot. Harper can wait. Harper’s always fucking up, but Telemachus Rhade... that suck-up’s quite a bit harder to nail down. He rarely earns punishment on Dylan’s watch, though Beka’s a different story. After the loss of her last Nietzschean, she’s never fully pleased with Dylan’s. 

When the bridge doors slide open for him, Dylan isn’t particularly surprised to see Telemachus shirtless at his station. Even if she isn’t going to dabble with another Nietzschean again, Beka still enjoys her eye-candy. Telemachus’ chiseled body is the perfect show: all bulging muscles and sleek curves and hard lines that form the perfect specimen: a modern Adonis. Even now, Beka’s eyes are roving hungrily over him, while Telemachus glances back at Dylan, the usual small frown in place. 

It’s a shame he’s shirtless, in a way, because Dylan’s favourite place to start is always tearing Telemachus’ clothes to shreds. Stripping Rhades is a favourite Hunt pastime. He wants to smirk the closer he comes, but he keeps his face stern. He’s a captain doling out discipline, not a lover chiding his partner. He’s halfway across the deck when Beka says, “A small ship came out of slipstream right off our port bow.”

As Dylan reaches Telemachus, he glances at the screen, but the display shows only generic space, blackness and stars. No ships. A tiny piece of metal drifts off the bottom right, clearly debris of whatever there once was. There’s no need to call him for every individual skirmish, but Dylan always gets a spark of irritation when his ship has a conflict and he isn’t there to see it. Beka continues, looking over with cold emphasis: “ _I_ blew it up, because your pet Nietzschean wouldn’t follow orders.”

“That can’t be right,” Dylan calmly answers. His arms are already encircling Telemachus’ waist, Telemachus’ reaching forward to grip his console. Dylan nudges at his calves and kicks his legs apart, making it easier for Dylan to brace behind him, flatten them together and grind his own hardening crotch against Telemachus’ firm ass. Telemachus looks away under the attention, avoiding Beka’s gaze, while Dylan strokes idly across his broad chest and nips at his ear. “Don’t tell me you misbehaved, Rhade...”

Telemachus hesitates. His pert lips remain open in the air, and then Dylan bites hard into the lobe of his ear, tugging him back, and he hisses, “They were unarmed.” Over at the weapon’s console, Beka snorts. That’s never stopped them before. If anything, small, defenseless ships make for good target practice. And Telemachus knows that, so Dylan can’t help but wonder how he made such an obvious mistake with such a flimsy excuse and if, perhaps, he did it _on purpose_ just to earn Dylan’s wrath. 

Dylan trails one hand up to Telemachus’ neck and curls his fingers around Telemachus’ throat, like threatening to crush his windpipe. With a casual glance at Beka, Dylan asks, “How do you want him punished?” It happened on her watch; the revenge is hers. Dylan flexes his fingers once, making it clear how far her vengeance can go. For a moment, she looks tempted, and Telemachus remains stiff and strong in Dylan’s grasp, accepting of his fate.

Then Beka suggests, “Why don’t we chop the rest of those bone blades off?”

So much for stoicism. Telemachus physical shivers in Dylan’s arms. It’s a reflex that couldn’t be helped over such an agonizing suggestion and a reminder of lingering pain. Telemachus’ bone blades have already been filed down, and it wasn’t a pretty process. Dylan can still hear the tortured screams ringing in his ears, but it was necessary to convince the commonwealth and his crew that the Nietzschean would be safe to keep. It’s nothing less than crippling a pet to keep it home. Like clipping a bird’s wings. Except that Telemachus could still crawl away if he wanted to, though no pride would take him back. 

And he would never leave Dylan’s side, which Dylan knows. It’s the others that took convincing, and Telemachus offered his pride-and-joy bones to be slowly chopped and dulled, just to prove himself and be able to stay. They’ll grow back, eventually. And he’ll probably offer himself to Dylan again, asking to be filed down to whatever his master wishes of him. But the grooves are still there, the blunt, protruding bumps out of his arms that mark him as not quite _human_. Losing those, too, would hurt more than he could cry, and in a show of mercy, Dylan says, “I don’t think that’s quite necessary.” He can feel Telemachus breathe in relief against him, though Beka rolls her eyes. 

“Well, I don’t want anything else out of him; he’s your pet.” She makes a bitter, irritated noise, but leaves off the rest: she’s no longer interested in fucking his kind. Dylan, now affectionately stroking the brutalized remains of Telemachus’ bone blades, turns Telemachus a fraction more in her direction, just to display him properly.

Dylan strokes one hand across Telemachus’ chest, fingers straying around one dusty nipple, and muses, “Would you like him more if I spread glitter over his tits?” Beka laughs, the reference obvious. “We could even paint him purple, or white to red. If you don’t want to touch, we could just make him dance...” Dylan pinches one nipple to demonstrate, scratching over it until it pebbles, then twisting it until Telemachus hisses and buckles back against him. Telemachus’ body always moves with such grace, but he’s best when he dances, slow and tribal, with only his pants or underwear or nothing at all. Beka looks mildly interested. 

But then she leans forward over her console, lazily propping her chin up on one hand, and suggests, “You just take him. I’ll watch.” She gets that wicked smirk on her face like she always does when a good show’s put on. Sometimes, Dylan gets the feeling she wouldn’t mind stripping _him_ down, but that’s never going to happen, so she’ll have to settle for watching him fuck others. 

He slams Telemachus over the console, bending him at the waist, hard enough to make the metal rattle. Telemachus grunts but takes it, his ass staying high in the air, the tented imprint of Dylan’s cock sliding along it. He puts a hand on Telemachus’ back to steady himself and hold his pet down while he thrusts forward a few times, grinding between tight cheeks. He can hear the tiny hitch in Telemachus’ breath, the miniscule rise of his pulse. He probably did want to be punished, and the way he presses his ass back against Dylan is just a little too eager. 

That’s one of the best things about him. Dylan has no guilt in pulling back, running his hands possessively down Telemachus’ sides, and gripping the leathery hem of Telemachus’ pants. With one fluid tug they’re jerked down, stretched across Telemachus’ thick thighs, and Dylan leaves them there, noting with amusement there’s no underwear to remove. Telemachus doesn’t just want this; he _planned_ for it, and Dylan can’t stop a short, derisive chuckle. He smacks one cheek of Telemachus’ ass in approval, but across the room, Beka says, “Ooh, are we going for a good old fashioned spanking?”

Dylan lifts an eyebrow. He hadn’t even though of that, and now he can’t imagine why. The firm globes of Telemachus’ ass practically beg to be touched, and the way he stands on the tips of his toes to show himself off to his master deserves a smack down. His feet creep an extra few centimeters apart, spreading himself open and bracing properly across the floor, legs tense in anticipation. It would be a shame _not_ to spank him, and Dylan gives him another slap, this time across both cheeks, just to experiment. 

Telemachus’ resilient ass stays its creamy colour, still held high and proud in the air, and Dylan realizes that it can take quite a beating. Another perk to having Nietzschean lovers. He could probably beat that ass for hours before Telemachus cried, where Harper would break in minutes. Beka and Trance he’d never try with, and his other nondescript, generic crew aren’t worth the comparison. Now he’s just wondering why he’s never spanked Telemachus before, before he realizes that Telemachus has never ordained to misbehave so bluntly before. Maybe he has the same yearning. 

He looks over his shoulder, chin resting on one arm, and though he’s frowning, his eyes say it all. Dylan nods and draws his hand back.

He smacks Telemachus _hard_ , right across the middle, pulls his hand back and does it again the other way, then a third time. A fourth. He starts reigning them down with brutal strength and no time in between, always in the same place, then a little bit lower, then right over the backs of Telemachus’ thighs, and it’s probably a good dozen blows before Telemachus hisses. His skin starts to turn pink faster. Dylan pummels it again and again, back and forth in bruising lines, the harsh noise of slapping skin-on-skin echoing all over the bridge. His own hand would probably hurt if he were a lesser man, but he’s a soldier bred for combat and raised in heavy-gravity, and he doesn’t tire. He hits Telemachus until the flushed skin below his hand is ripe and red, and even then, all he does is switch the angle. 

He berates Telemachus right down the middle, over his crack, forming a cross, relishing each ripple of flesh below his palm. Telemachus is forced down with each blow but rises back every time, pushing out to meet him, pleading for contact, and Dylan gives it in spades. When he switches to slapping Telemachus’ thighs, he makes sure to trail his hand as far between Telemachus’ legs as possible, catching the back of his tight balls and his thick cock, already hard despite the pain. It starts to swing in the air from the force, and every time Dylan catches it, Telemachus winces, grunting and pulsing. His eyes are closed, teeth grit, face scrunched in a sort of permanent-flinch. Dylan hits as hard as he can just to see Telemachus cringe, and then he starts to trail lower and lower, linger longer and longer, until he gives up the smacks all together and just grabs Telemachus’ balls. Telemachus goes rigid.

Dylan crunches his balls hard in one hand, making him grit back a muffled roar of pain. The large stones are hot against him, tender and easy to knead, to tug at, and Dylan jerks them back before twisting them around, watching Telemachus’ shoulders tremble and his face contort in agony. A rare jolt of pity makes Dylan let go just before Telemachus’ eyes start to water at the edges, and he asks, loud enough to reach every corner of the bridge, “Had enough, Rhade?”

Telemachus gasps. It takes him a minute to get his breath back, his rear and balls abused as they are, but then he barks, just as loudly, “No, Sir!” The gaze he shoots back at Dylan is fierce, absolutely feral, and hunger broils right up in Dylan’s chest. It’s a wonder he manages to keep his cock in his pants at all with this living sex god breathing his same air. Lower, Telemachus growls, “I should still be punished, Sir.” He deliberately spreads his legs even further, as much as he can with his pants still stretched around his thighs, and Dylan has the sudden urge to spin him around and slap his balls until he cries—make him just as red on the front as the back. But then, he doesn’t want to do _too_ much damage; he wouldn’t want to deny any future Hunts future Rhades.

“I don’t think this counts,” Beka snorts, and it almost makes Dylan start. It was easier to forget her presence with his own show going on. “He likes it too much for it to be punishment.”

Dylan tilts his head in acquiescence. She isn’t wrong. He offers with a smug look in her direction, “I’ll whip him later. Promise.”

“And I don’t get to see that?” She looks half pleased and half genuinely disappointed, but Dylan doesn’t let up. If he does choose to draw blood, that’ll be between him and Telemachus: no witnesses. A few seconds of that look, and Beka rolls her eyes but sighs fondly. “Alright. At least rough him up a bit more. I earned a show.” She gestures her hand, but he doesn’t need to be told twice. 

He fists a hand in Telemachus’ hair, jerking it back hard enough to snap Telemachus’ neck, but he just grunts and goes. Dylan’s other hand shoots out to grab Telemachus’ hard shaft, and he squeezes the impressive girth in his fingers, tight and with his nails digging in just a little bit. It twitches against him but doesn’t at all wilt, even when he scratches down the underside hard enough to draw out a choked noise. Leaning darkly over Telemachus’ shoulder, Dylan hisses, “You like that, bitch? It feels like you do.” He gives another rough squeeze to Telemachus’ thick cock that would shatter a mere human, taunting, “You like being a whore for a kluge?”

Telemachus doesn’t answer. Ever the perfect soldier, he can’t. They’re humiliating words, Dylan knows, poignant and sharp, but Telemachus, for all his teasing, would never defy his captain at a time like this. He’s not like his ancestor. So he says nothing, teeth grit hard like a cornered beast, and Dylan tortures his cock with too-hard strokes and rough tugs and all five fingers digging into it. It only seems to grow harder the crueler Dylan is, and he mocks, “If only the other prides could see you now, quivering in a kluge’s grip, practically begging to be fucked. Is that what you want, slut? You want your master’s big cock?” Telemachus doesn’t manage to stop his moan in time, though he cuts it off. “Of course you do. You already gave me your clothes, your bones, your dignity. Why shouldn’t I have your body, too?” Leaning down across Telemachus’ back, flattening them together, Dylan growls in his ears, “There’s nothing left of you that isn’t _mine_.”

Telemachus shivers again, his cock pulsing thickly in Dylan’s hand. Dylan gives it a final, vicious squeeze before pulling back, and he can’t help himself from giving those plump, hanging balls a slap on the way out. Telemachus grunts but stays where is, draped over like a sacrifice, held open and ready for the taking.

As Dylan starts to fiddle with his own pants—he can’t resist a second longer, not with the wanton way Telemachus arches and hardens for him—Beka’s footsteps sound across the deck. Dylan’s got his cock halfway out of his pants before he looks over at her. She gives him a grin that could be gratitude. She’s probably off to find her own lover and finish herself off, which is just as well for Dylan. He stabs one finger into Telemachus’ tiny hole before the Nietzschean can get any ideas of leaving now that their audience is gone, and Telemachus cries out, back dipping. The tight orifice isn’t built to take dry fingers—a genetic failing, if Dylan’s opinion counts for anything—but he pushes in anyway, rough and unforgiving, just like Telemachus likes it. At the knuckle, Dylan starts to piston it in and out, and he straights up to get a clear shot at spitting on Telemachus’ ass.

The first few globs just hit his red cheeks, dribbling lightly down, but then they start hitting the top of his crack, and Dylan keeps going, until he can pull his finger out and lather it up in his owl saliva. It’s not enough for a man of his size, but it’ll have to do. He never bothers carrying lube with him, and there’s no way he’s moving from this spot until he’s come in Telemachus’ body. He rubs two fingers around the puckered entrance of Telemachus’ ass, then shoves inside, earning another grunt. He starts to work them in immediately, scissoring them to stretch Telemachus open, stroke his hot walls and part him enough for a third finger. Telemachus squirms in his grip, impatient, and Dylan slaps one abused cheek for punishment. This whole thing is supposed to be punishment, but he still doesn’t want to tear anything inside. He gets Telemachus as wide as he can before he pulls them out, wiping them off on Telemachus’ thighs. 

Then he lines up and dives in, all at once, the blunt head of his cock popping in with a satisfying squeeze. Telemachus arches up, but Dylan shoves him down, drapes over him again and grinds him against the console, hips sliding forward. Telemachus’ ass doesn’t seem to want to take him, though it sucks at him, and the pressure is a heady delight that Dylan pushes through, even when it doesn’t feel like he can go any farther. Telemachus whines, a deep, rumbling, sensual sound, and Dylan sinks as deep as he can go, all the way, until his hefty balls are right against Telemachus’ cheeks and there’s nothing left to give. He can feel the heat of Telemachus’ tenderized ass, and he _almost_ feels sorry for fucking his poor pet so soon after a beating, but then Telemachus tries to buck back into him, and any guilt slinks away. Telemachus wants this. Desperately. He says it in his needy growl and the way he presses himself into Dylan wherever he can. Dylan wraps one arm up around his waist, the other back to Telemachus’ throat, holding on like a collar. 

He slides out just a little, slams back in, earns a grunt, and he has to drop his hand to shield Telemachus’ cock from slapping into the console. He cups it, then latches on instead, squeezing tight and staying there, like a cock cage dangerous fastened around a too-aroused shaft. He doesn’t relinquish his grip, not for a second, and he keeps it up on the next thrust, then the next, until he’s slamming into Telemachus over and over and stealing away any pleasure that might come.

He knows the right angle, having done this a thousand times, and he hits it on every thrust, making Telemachus’ breath choke out, fists so tight around the console that his knuckles are white. It feels good, _so good_ always does—Telemachus has the best ass on the ship, maybe the best Dylan’s ever had, and for a while, he ravages it, until he’s sure that if he doesn’t stop, he’ll tear it apart. There isn’t enough lube for how hard he’s fucking his lover, and he has to force himself to stop lest he start to draw blood. He can feel it clenching too tightly around him. He can feel the winces ripple through Telemachus’ body. He pulls back, breathing hard, and considers his options. 

Then he slips his cock out of Telemachus’ body, steps back, and grabs Telemachus back by the hair, jerking him away from the console. He has to force Telemachus down—those knees never buckle easily—and herd him around. But Telemachus goes. He kneels before his captain, panting more from emotion than exertion, and for a moment, they lock eyes. 

Then Telemachus dives forward without having to be told, mouth parting to take Dylan right down. Dylan groans his delight, head tossing back, hips thrusting forward, and Telemachus’ jaw practically unhinges to take him, already trained for this. Telemachus is as good in bedroom as he is in a fight. He takes Dylan’s mammoth cock all the way down his throat on the first go, sucking hard while he does it, like he’d devour Dylan whole if he could. The black stubble on his chin scratches Dylan’s thighs when Telemachus slams in, and it tingles in the wake when Telemachus pulls back to suckle at the head. He fucks his face on Dylan’s cock, and Dylan doesn’t have to do a thing but give in to humping that pretty mouth and stare down at the gorgeous specimen he’s acquired. He’s a lucky bastard, and he knows it. 

He groans, just for sport, “That’s right, Rhade. Take my kluge cock...” Telemachus moans around his mouthful, sucking harder in a wild attempt to bring Dylan off. His hips are rolling in time with his head, humping the air like a dog, the head of his cock poking out above his shoved-down pants. It’s leaking a steady stream of white: Nietzscheans come too much for their own good. Dylan probably could’ve used that for lube, but he likes this better, and he growls, “Get it nice and wet so you can take it when I shove it back inside you...” Telemachus moans again.

He waits until he knows he’s close, and he wants to be back inside, so he pushes Telemachus off by the hair, leaving Telemachus’ open mouth dripping spit and precum. His flushed cheeks match his pink tongue, lolling out of his mouth. 

Dylan means to draw him back up, continue fucking him over the console, but apparently, Telemachus has other plans. 

Telemachus shoots to life, lunges up and tackles him to the floor—Dylan’s back hits the deck with a sickening crunch, his feet torn out from under him. His first reaction is shock, then pride; only Telemachus could’ve bested him like that. He has no time to get up before Telemachus is straddling his hips and pressing back down onto his cock. Dylan, a few centimeters up on his elbows, drops back down with a pleasured moan. He didn’t see that coming. He should’ve. The look on Telemachus’ face is utterly wild. He’s a beast that’s never quite been tamed, just grown loyal. He forces himself all the way down, until Dylan’s massive cock is completely buried inside him, his abused balls and red-lined cock lying along Dylan’s stomach. 

Then he braces his hands flat on Dylan’s chest, and he starts to bounce up and down, fucking himself again with a needy moan and a feral snarl mixed together. He grinds his own ass into Dylan’s dick and slides up and down, more of a whore for it than Dylan could’ve expressed. He doesn’t just want Dylan’s cock; he _adores_ it, and the way he glares down at Dylan says it all. He didn’t fire on that ship when another captain ordered him to. Not because of his occasional bouts of sickening nobility and weak emotion, but because he wanted Dylan Hunt to come down and hurt him in the middle of the bridge. He wanted this. And Dylan gave it to him.

Dylan, in a feeble attempt to regain some semblance of control, grabs at Telemachus’ cock with both hands. One stays to claw at it, the other running down to the heavy balls below. He clenches tightly onto them, trying to crush them, and Telemachus screams in pain, face scrunched up, but his hips don’t once stop. If anything, he fucks himself harder. No matter how hard Dylan squeezes Telemachus’ cock, it stays rock-hard in his grasp. Telemachus rides Dylan’s cock beautifully right through it all. It draws Dylan so close to the edge to watch, and he hisses while he doles out pain, “You’re a sick fuck, Rhade.”

“ _Your_ sick fuck,” Telemachus growls. That’s all the reminder Dylan needs.

He comes with a wild roar, arching up and emptying himself right into Telemachus’ tight ass, and Telemachus grinds into it and takes it, gasping as he’s filled. Dylan might be human, but he still gives his fair share, and he pumps up to give Telemachus load after load. Telemachus shudders through it, his cock twitching excitedly in Dylan’s hand, and for a moment, Dylan’s lost in his orgasm, existing only to fill Telemachus with his cum. 

Then he’s spiraling down, slumping against the floor in a delicious haze, and he feels kind enough to order, “You can come.”

Telemachus explodes immediately. He sprays himself across Dylan’s shirt, screaming just as loud as Dylan did, and he keeps rocking himself on Dylan’s spent cock until he’s spilled everything he has. 

He has the sense to bend down and lick the remains up afterwards, lapping a wet patch over the sticky mess on Dylan’s clothes. He’d be in for trouble if he didn’t. He pushes it up Dylan’s chest to reach the lower parts, so he doesn’t have to climb off Dylan’s cock yet, and even though the pressure is borderline painful, Dylan lets it go on. 

He runs a tired hand up through Telemachus’ silky hair and tells him, “Good boy.” Telemachus’ eyes flicker up, burning still, mouth open and tongue draped with cum. Dylan smirks and purrs, hushed and earnest, “You’re such a good boy for me.”

Once Telemachus has licked away his mess, he sighs, “But not for Beka, apparently,” and kisses Dylan’s stomach. Dylan only snorts, not bothering to mention that he knows the truth. He waits for Telemachus to finally climb off his lap, slipping off his cock, then kneeling next to him, ass too bruised to sit. Eventually, Dylan pushes up and tucks himself back into his pants, pulling down his ruined shirt. He leans over for a kiss, and Telemachus leans back to meet it, tasting of cum and cock. 

Dylan takes a few seconds to ravish his mouth anyway, just for the warmth and intimacy of the action. Telemachus pulls back and gets up first, offering a hand to help Dylan to his feet. 

Dylan heads off to the station Beka previously occupied, slapping Telemachus’ ass on the way to earn one last wince, before reporting to serve with his lover on the best ship in the Empire.


End file.
